


told me i was numb, i just wanted to see you heal

by inkwelled



Series: starmoraweek2018 [5]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alien/Human Relationships, Although It Seems Like It, Blood and Injury, Crying, Deep Space Consequences, F/M, Heavy Angst, Hospitals, Human Biology, Hurt Peter, Hurt/Comfort, Hypothermia, Poor Circulation, Protective Gamora (Marvel), Sick Character, Space Sickness, all the feels, no major character death i promise, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-05
Updated: 2018-09-05
Packaged: 2019-07-08 00:10:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15919035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkwelled/pseuds/inkwelled
Summary: day five ; now i feel the rain running off my frame, and i keep still- five times gamora said she loved him in her own way, and the one time she said it in his own way.





	told me i was numb, i just wanted to see you heal

**Author's Note:**

> title ; [need you still](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LLIpCAXZebQ) by [rvrb](https://genius.com/Rvrb-need-you-still-lyrics)
> 
> guys, i am so sorry this took so long. if you want to know why i didn't get this published on time, i'll explain in the end notes. enjoy though!

i.

 

“How could you be so _stupid,”_ she hisses through clenched teeth, suppressed scream tearing up her throat, and he groans. 

She’s arm-deep in his stomach, hands painted red as she desperately tries to stop the blood flow. The wound is jagged, ripped open wide and she breathes in deeply because she can she his ribs, _she’s not supposed to be able to see his ribs._

Peter’s eyelids are fluttering, glazed as he stares up her. He licks his lips, but the only sounds that comes out is heavy breath. She can feel herself crying, blurring her vision, and pushes down harder on the wound. He makes a noise like a dying animal, a noise she knows well, and she sobs harder. 

“Y-you’re gonna be okay,” she whimpers, palms overlapping each other. She’s stripped down past her white undershirt, and it’s already soaked through but she can’t see, can’t _think._

_He’s going to die._

They’re on an unfamiliar planet, with no way to contact the others. Gamora doesn’t even know if they’re _alive,_ the last sight being them thrown from the ship as it crashed it’s way through the atmosphere. She had woken up slumped over a rock, every inch of her throbbing, and when she had brought her fingers to her forehead, they had come away dark green.

  
Even now she can feel blood leaking from the gash on her forehead as Peter reaches weakly for her. His thumb brushes over the cut, palm shaky as he lays it against her cheek. His mouth is moving, but there’s no sound, as if she’s underwater. 

Hands shaking on his wound, pressing the already-soaked fabric deeper and deeper, trying to delay the inevitable, she leans forward. There’s tears dripping down her chin, pure agony ripping up her spine with every movement she knows isn’t from the crash. 

It’s watching Peter die in her arms, with nothing she can do. 

_“Go.”_

His voice is so raspy, so quiet, she doesn’t hear it at first. She leans closer and closer, until his lips brush her ear. “ _Go.”_

She pulls back, angry. “No,” she spits, leaning more of her weight on her hands. “No, I’m not leaving you.” 

Unexpectedly, she sobs. “W-we’re gonna get you out of here, you’re going to be fine, we’ll take you – take you to Xandar and they’ll fix you up.” 

His fingers scramble across the bare skin of her bicep. He’s grasping for something, someone, purchase as he grows ever closer to death and she can’t help but give in. Her knees ache from the stones pressing into them, and three feet away is a blood-stained rock that sharpens into a point that she can’t bear to look at. 

How many times has he laid in front of her, just like this? How many times has she leaned over, skittering her fingers over the planes of his stomach, watching him squirm? 

Her eyes burn with the lies she’s spilling, and Peter’s eyes are knowing. His skin is pale, paler than she’s ever seen it, and blood drips from the corner of his mouth, planting a violent line down his face. When she goes to brush it away, allowing herself to let up on the pressure, it streaks against his chin, lost in the hair that lines his jaw. 

Gamora sobs harder. He’s going to die here, on an unfamiliar planet, in her arms. When the ship had crashed through the atmosphere, spiraling violently towards the surface, he had grabbed her, forcing his body to maneuver around hers. 

She had screamed then, knowing his skin wasn’t as resilient as hers. The others are gone, even Groot, lost to the whipping of the wind and the hole in the side of the cockpit of a ship that’s in pieces, scattered around them even now. 

Dark circles ring his eyes as he cups her jawline. “Gamora,” he whispers, and she sobs again. 

_“Gamora.”_

“I’m right here,” she says, leaning so close she can _feel_ the warmth leaving his body. 

The thought makes her hunch over. He’s always been warmer than her, and this much skin is reminding her of last night, when he disappeared under the blankets and smiled from the inside of her thighs. He had kissed her afterwards, bring her against his chest and she had drifted off to the warmth of his chest and the beat of his heart under her ear. 

He gasps out _something_ she can’t decipher, bringing her forehead to rest against his. 

His head is pillowed by rocks and dirt and plants, his own tears running the blood on his face pink, and she thinks he’s never been more beautiful. 

“I’m staying,” she whispers as his eyes close.

 

 

ii.

 

When Peter comes to, slowly, like a dream, the first thing he realizes is that he’s in a hospital bed. Even blinking makes his head throb, the lights not helping and he groans. 

“Peter?”

The whisper is hopeful, and despite the pain, he turns his head. Gamora is leaning forward in the most uncomfortable-looking chair he’s ever seen, hair piled on top of her head and limp. She looks like she hasn’t slept for days, rather crying, because the bruises under her eyes tinge red. 

“Hey,” he croaks, and she breaks into a smile, her eyes shimmering. 

Her hand is soft against his, and it takes every drop of his strength to twitch his fingers. But she looks down, smiles wider, takes his hand. Underneath the blanket he can’t feel his feet, or his legs, or his back besides just pure and simple _pain_ but smiles regardless. 

“What happened?” 

Gamora’s gaze drops to his hand – their hands. “You stayed behind to deactivate a bomb. There was no time – no time to save everyone on the planet. You just ran off and I-I didn’t get there in time.” 

“Mora?” 

When she looks up, there’s silent tears spilling down her face. “I’m sorry,” she says, visibly holding back sobs. His hand is shaky when it reaches up to cup her cheek and she leans into the tough, shoulders sagging. 

“How long was I out?” 

She closes her eyes, lets the hot tears drip from her chin. “Two days,” she whispers. 

He smooths his thumb over the curve of her cheekbone. 

“It’s not your fault.” 

Gamora chokes on a sob. “It should’ve been me.” 

She’s pulling back into herself, he can see it. Her shoulders are tight, strands of greasy hair hanging over them that escape from the ponytail that sags. Her clothes seem to hang off her frame, and through cotton-stuffed eyelids he wonders if that’s his shirt. 

“C’mere,” he whispers and she shakes her head. Pulling back into the chair, trying to get away from him as if she could or would hurt him, makes his chest hurt. Or is that just his injury? There’s water in his head, submerging everything he knows into darkness and he tightens his grip on her fingers. 

“No,” she protests. “I don’t want to hurt you.” 

“You never could,” he hums, throat dry and lips cracked. Every word is a mountain, but she’s hurting and it’s because of _him._

Gamora laughs bitterly. “You don’t know that.” 

A shaky hand brings their hands to his mouth. “Yes, I do,” he says between kisses to her knuckles and she sighs. Something small inside tells her that he’s okay, he’s going to be okay, that’s all that matters. 

So she leans into him. There’s still that monster behind her ribs, slowly clawing its way up her throat but she rests her head on his forearm, breathes out. Above her, Peter sighs contently, in a way that probably hurts from the shrapnel that had embedded itself in his skin at the blast when the device went rogue. 

His hand rests on the crown of her head, shifting through the strands of hair that have fallen on her forehead and she can’t look away. He’s still pale, still shaking, and she knows the scars on his back will never go away. 

They’ll join the jagged one on his abdomen, the callouses on his fingers from handling lasers that were far too hot from his skin, the circle of scar tissue behind his ear from his mask. But she’ll trace each one, kiss the puckered edges, rub her thumb over his cheekbone. 

And he’ll do the same. 

But for now he shakily pulls Gamora’s hair from the updo. She wants to protest, wants to tell him not to because it’s been days since she’s washed but he doesn’t seem to mind. Next to her, the monitor beeps in time with his heart and every few minutes the IV for pain meds vibrates and lessens the flow. 

She knows the Guardians are outside, waiting. They’re probably groaning, sleepy, but she knows they’re eager to see their teammate. The past two days have been hard on them; Mantis maybe even more than her. 

Peter’s half-sister had tried to ease his pain while they jumped points to the hospital. There had been tears streaming down her face, red welts appearing on her skin every second she kept her hand pressed to his face but she had stayed. 

Despite Gamora’s protested, she had stayed. 

The doctor had whispered that without Mantis, he might not have survived. 

So she turns to press a kiss to the top of his hand. “Are you feeling good enough for me to call the team in? They’re been worried sick, no matter what Rocket says.” 

Peter hums. “Yeah, let the wild things in.” 

When she opens the door, Mantis is the first one to squeeze through. She immeditally breaks into tears, sitting down at his side before he reaches for her hand. Gamora averts her eyes, and quietly closes the door. 

“Let us through!” Drax exclaims. “I am interested on seeing his scar.” 

She scowls. “Let’s give them time first.” 

Rocket snorts. “Are we all going to get a private crying session with Quill? He got hurt he didn’t die.” 

There’s a tightness around his eyes and his shoulders pitch forward. She wants to hit him, but knows this is only his coping mechanism. “If you want a heart-to-heart, get in line.” 

“I am Groot.” 

She pats the youngest member’s shoulder. “You can go next, sure. You want us to wait or should we all go in together?” 

“I am Groot.” 

Mantis opens the door. Her eyes are rimmed red, but the stress in her eyes is gone, replaced by relief. “Peter says the sooner the gang comes in the sooner he can get back to bed. The pain meds are kicking in again.” 

They pile into his hospital room, Mantis on the right side of his bed while Gamora reclaims her chair. Rocket perches himself on the table, whistling quietly. They’re all in there for only a few minutes until Peter’s eyelids grow heavy and Gamora ushers them all out. 

He’s going to be okay. 

Later, she smooths the curls on his forehead down. “Thank you for believing in me,” she says into the silent room. He’ll be okay, they’ll be okay. 

She’ll tell him later.

 

 

iii.

 

Gamora remembers what she said when they pressed their lips together on that cold, desolate planet where his lips turned blue and skin white. They had pressed together and she had overridden her body mods to try and provide some warmth that he so desperately needed. 

Even now, two weeks later, her panel is still glitching. She had never reached that temperature; she had basically rigged her body to increase temperature until she got so hot that getting too close with his skin had burned it. 

But she had held him close, regardless. 

Stranded after a job went downwards, the weather had turned quickly. It hadn’t been soon after they had found the cave that she had to venture out to find wood. Through chittering teeth Peter had tried in vain to light a flame and had moaned when the timbers were too wet. 

So she had stripped down to her undershirt, laid the leather of her jacket over his quaking shoulders, and compromised her internal temperature. 

In seconds, Peter had gone from shivering to sweating _and_ shivering. But even as she upped the temperature, he had continued to shake from the cold and she had to resort to divesting him of his own shirt. 

Gamora had pressed the shirt to her lips, blowing, before setting the cloth to his forehead. Depending on the minute he would either lean in or away, and as the minutes ticked by she had grown more worried. All they had were whatever they had on their person, and the snowstorm outside hadn’t lessened enough for her to go out and look for help. 

Not that she would have left Peter anyways. 

Not knowing she had dozed off, she woke up in her bed. The furs had been soft and warm to the touch, too warm against her compromised panel and she had scrambled. 

_Peter._

In a vain effort to try and warm him up, Mantis had taken part of the hypothermia and stuck him in her bunk. When Gamora stumbled past, Mantis had been curled into her brother’s side, fingers pressed to his temples as she fed him warmth straight from her own body. 

Shaking fingers had draped a blanket around his half-sister’s shoulders. _Thank you,_ Mantis had whispered, reaching out to touch her hand. 

The empath had blinked. “You love him.” 

Gamora had traced a line up his bicep. “Yes,” she murmured, not enough energy to refute. Even now every step is shaky and while her panel is slowly rebooting, she doesn’t know how severe it had been until Rocket bumped against her in the hallway and yelped. 

She had apologized, offering to treat the burn but he had waved it off. Since then the team has avoided her, which for now she’s fine with. Mantis and her switch places every five hours, and it’s quiet. 

Too quiet. 

Peter’s color has returned, his pulse is normal, his skin no longer freezing to the touch. It’s been three days, and she lays a warm cloth on his forehead. 

He hasn’t woken up. In the years she’s known Peter now, she’s picked up cues on how humans operate. Or, their bodies at least. She’s patched wounds and tended to colds and rubbed circles into his back as he threw up because they ate something toxic to his frail human stomach. 

Gamora likes to think she’s proficient in the human body. 

As it turns out, she isn’t. 

Peter isn’t like her; they can’t just pop open a panel in his neck and read what wires are crossed or malfunctioning. They can’t monitor blood flow or pressure or brain activity, and the ship shakes as they make another jump. 

Xandar is clicks away, and she gripes Peter’s hand tighter. 

Nothing. 

He’s breathing, chest rising and falling in a rhythm that she knows. She’s traced every inch of his skin before; kissed the planes of his chest and the valleys of his stomach. Gamora knows this body, knows Peter, but can’t _understand._

Mantis slumbering in the chair only a few feet away, Gamora presses a kiss to the top of his hand. His fingers don’t move in hers even when she squeezes them, and she closes her eyes. 

“Come back to us,” she whispers, and the ship shakes again. “Come back to _me.”_  

Peter’s eyes stayed closed. They don’t open slowly; he doesn’t smile at her and bring her down for a kiss. She doesn’t cry into his lips with happiness, his hand doesn’t squeeze back. 

“See you in the morning,” she whispers. 

Peter sleeps on.

 

 

iv.

 

Peter hums, and she smiles. She’s working her fingertips into the curve of his shin, pressing deep but not hard as she works the feeling back into his skin. 

Humans, as it turns out, aren’t made for deep-space exploration. 

Or that’s what Peter calls it. 

Massaging her knuckles into his knee, Gamora watches his face. Peter’s laying back against the pillows, eyes closed and simply surrendering to her ministrations. Neither one of them mentions how this is becoming more and more frequent; how his body is constantly having circulation issues that render everything from his fingertips to his toes useless. 

It had all reached a tipping point today. 

There’s a cut on Peter’s cheek, still oozing blood, but she doesn’t worry about it. Instead, she remembers his hoarse cry as his legs buckled underneath him, unable to hold his weight and how he had hit the ground, _hard._

She had dropped her gun, jetting over to him. In the flickering lights of the _Benetar_ she can’t even remember what they were hired to do, but it doesn’t matter because when her fingers sink back to his ankles he sighs. 

At least he can feel this now. 

Rocket had yelled to get him back to the ship and she hadn’t protested. Peter had been dead weight in her arms as she flew back to lay him down and start their ritual. Gamora’s hands, shaky with adrenaline and the need to get him back the feeling in his legs had been grasped by him. 

“I’ll be okay,” he had shakily smiled, everything but _okay._ “Go back and help.” 

She had shaken her head. “No, you’re more important. They can take care of themselves.” 

Peter had snorted, leaning back against the pillows. His face had been deathly pale, bruise-like half-moons underneath his eyes. “I know they can take care of themselves but it’ll be easier with you there. I’ll be here when you’re done.” 

Ripping open a pack of bandages with her teeth, she had stubbornly shook her head. “They’ll survive. I’m not leaving until you can stand.” 

He had been quiet then, and she had been thankful. Handing him two heat packets to cover his hips, Peter had silently complied and Gamora had kept her head down. 

Careful fingers had peeled away his boots, socks. She had worked slowly in sections until his skin flourished with color beneath her ministrations and he had groaned, audible cues her method worked. 

When he didn’t flush when she divested him of his pants had clued her into how much pain he had been it. Not even a wiggle of eyebrows, she had dug her palms into his thighs, desperate to give him back the feeling he craved most. 

Touch deprivation, as he called it, is something she quickly _gets._

Outside their room, there’s a rumble as the rest of their team returns. By the way of the commotion, they’re been successful and are a few million credits richer. Almost immediately followed was the trembling as they lifted off. 

Once again they’re back in space and Peter trembles under her. 

She’s kneeling on the bed, bent over his leg when it happens. 

“I don’t want to die out here,” he whispers, and she freezes. 

_What?_

“What?” she says, echoing her own thoughts, looking up at him. He’s staring up at the ceiling, hands laid flat against the mattress. He looks peaceful, even through his brow creases with pain. 

“I’m getting older,” he states, “no human has ever survived this long in space and I’m surprised the compression hasn’t caught up with me until now.” 

“Hush.” 

Peter looks down at her, surprised, and she presses her fingers back into his skin. “You’re not going to die out here, you’re going to go back to Earth one day and prove to NISAN that going this deep in space is possible.” 

He blinks. “NISAN? Babe, I think you mean NASA.” 

She presses a kiss to his ankle. “I meant what I said. You say your body is frail but it’s endured so much and I can’t help but admire how you’ve dealt with it. You fall, but you get back up and that’s what matters.” 

Peter’s eyes are closed, and she smiles to herself, massaging her fingers back into his skin. Of course he’s asleep, she understands. She continues.

 

 

v.

 

When Gamora wakes up sweating, she knows immediately something is wrong. 

Extreme internal temperatures are something her body mods prevents, unless directly overridden or affected in some way. There’s been times injuries have damaged the panel in her neck, but the only time she’s tampered with her mods had been when Peter’s lips turned blue and his body shook violently with the cold. 

_Peter._

“Peter?” 

There’s no answer, and she turns over. Their bunk is dark, shadows casting from underneath the door as whoever’s on night shift does their rounds. She inches her fingers across the – thin – space between their bodies and she gasps, jerking back. 

The sheets are wet, warm, and he’s burning up. 

Panic seeps into her bones. How many times has he gotten colds before, how many times has he been fine within hours? 

Something in her mind whispers it’s different this time. 

She listens. 

Gamora fumbles for the blankets. Shaking fingers rip the furs from his form, and she lays the back of her hand across his cheek. Underneath her skin, Peter’s face is burning, hot to the touch, moist with his sweat. 

Sliding from the bed triggers the overhead. For a second she stumbles, before reaching out for the switch and turning back the intensity. When the lights are dim enough she’s able to see without seeing stars and it’s dark enough he’ll stay asleep, she gropes for the bathroom. 

The rag she’s designated in her mind as his for when he gets sick is on the sink. Cold water runs over her fingers, waking her up further as she soaks it. 

When she shuffles back into the bedroom, she sucks in a breath. With the lights on, she can see everything she couldn’t see before; the redness and cracking of his lips, nose and cheeks. Peter had been complaining of exhaustion and aching in his shoulders for two days but she hadn’t thought anything of it. 

He’s sick. 

By the rasping of his chest when he breathes and the dry way he coughs in his sleep her theory is confirmed. Despite being so hot he could melt a hole in their mattress he’s shivering and she makes a mournful sound when she lays the cold compress across his forehead and he whimpers. 

“Shhh,” she murmurs, and he settles down unconsciously. “It’s okay.” 

Peter’s been sick before, but it’s never been this bad. 

There’s red around his eyes and by the way his cheeks turn downward she can tell his head hurts. It’s too late to dock somewhere and touchdown planetside to find him painkillers, so she pulls up a chair and resides herself to a long night. 

Every two hours she replaces the water in the bowl. There’s two rags in the bowl; she can switch them out without leaving him devoid of the coolness for too long. He twists between sweating and shivering; throughout it all his skin is still burning and flushed. 

She doesn’t remember falling asleep. 

. 

Gamora bolts upwards. 

The ship is quiet, unmoving. Her head had been pillowed on Peter’s hand, and she wipes away the sweat that’s sticky against her cheek. 

Pressing a hand to his forehead, she sighs. 

His fever has broken. 

While his cheeks are still flushed, he’s no longer shivering or sweating as violently. She feels confident enough to remove the rag, pull the furs up over his legs, brush his curls from his forehead. They’re slick and greasy with sweat, but she doesn’t care. 

He’s okay. 

“You’re an idiot,” she whispers. 

Climbing back into bed beside him is the easiest thing she’s done in a while. The thin material of his sleep shirt is perfect for balancing out the heat that radiates from his every pore and she scooches closer, pressing herself into his ribs. 

“Good morning,” she yawns, and promptly falls asleep.

 

 

\+ i.

 

“GAMORA!” 

His scream of her name is the worst thing she’s ever heard. There’s pain coursing through her like adrenaline, locking up her joints and she’s falling, falling, falling – 

– _Peter._  

He’s there, catching her. She’s no longer in her body, rather floating above and around until she can see the way dark green blooms across her skin, spilling from the gaping wound in her right breast. Peter makes a wounded sound, and she swallows dryly. 

There’s cotton in her throat and in her eyes, and she can’t think. All at once she’s watching from above and then below, then from the side and she yearns to cup his face. Her own eyes are burning with tears, vision slowly being blocked with warnings as her blood pressure drops and she loses blood by the second. 

She wills them away. 

Gamora had taken the shot for Peter, throwing herself into his to prevent the dagger from flying straight through his heart. She’s been so close to losing him so many times, and she refuses to do it again. 

This time, it’s her dying. 

And she’s okay with that. 

Peter’s sobbing so hard she can’t see the green of his eyes. Tears drip onto her chin as he presses close, palms slipping against her wound as he tries to keep the blood where it belongs. 

 _Inside_ her body. 

It’s in vain, and they both know it. Already she can feel parts of her body shutting down, trying to maintain order as organic riots against machine underneath skin. 

“Peter,” she gasps, blood rising in her throat like bile. “Peter.” 

“No, no, no,” he chants, pushing harder to her wound until she winces. She would think pain would be an old friend, wouldn’t bother her, but Peter’s palms are coated in dark green and she wonders faintly how long it’ll take for him to scrub it out from underneath his nails. 

“Peter, look at me.” 

He keeps his head down, steadily repeating _no_ , and she sobs. 

_“Peter.”_

He looks up at that. Even though she’s the one dying, he looks like death warmed over. Red splotches over his skin and his nose is running. There’s her blood on his hands, knees, coat as he leans over, trying to stem the flow they both know won’t be stemmed. 

“I shouldn’t have taken the knife out,” he whispers shakily, and she grasps for the hand pressed to her chest. 

“It’ll be quicker this way.” 

Peter sobs again, his shoulders wracking with emotion. Guilt rips through her – she’s heard him talk about the day his mom died, her last words, her last wish and how he turned away. 

It’s the exact same. 

_I love you._

“Gamora?” 

She struggles to keep her eyes open. Every part of her body is growing heavier by the second and she’s floating, anchored, free and restrained all at once. 

“Gamora! Gamora, please,” he’s begging now, desperate for her to open her eyes. “Gamora!” 

Her lips are moving, but he can’t hear, can’t see. Over and over again, the same syllbales, the same words, and he leans closer. 

“Gamora?” 

“I love you,” she rasps, and something in him breaks. 

“GAMORA!” 

Her eyes slip close, bones falling away from his hand as she shifts. Already she seems smaller, frailer, although her body mods are fighting so hard to keep her alive. 

“I-I love you too,” he sobs into her chest and she’s still beneath him.

**Author's Note:**

> this summer i struggled with my mental health in a way i never had before. it scared me. getting out of bed was hard, finding motivation to do the simplest things was non-existent. i stopped eating, worked out every morning for two hours, convinced that was the way to kickstart myself back into being okay. it didn't work; i lost weight so quickly it became unhealthy until i was withering away. then something happened with someone i loved (still love) that left me in the dark and i spiraled worse. i turned to writing, burying myself in the what if's and the could have beens as i wrote myself down and spilled everything.
> 
> senior year started this month, and i crashed last night. i laid in bed for hours. i couldn't move, couldn't think, and i've felt guilty all day. the people i live with don't believe in depression, that it's just selfish people being lazy and feeling bad for themselves, so i had to find ways to "cure" myself through other means.
> 
> i'm sorry. here's day five - a day later - and day six (today) will just be copy-pasted from a story i'm working on currently. i still need to finish my homework and shower and wash my sheets and pretend i'm fine, because that takes time and it's close to midnight.
> 
> see you all tomorrow for day seven and if you've stuck around this long, you mean the world to me. you guys are the true mvp's; nothing makes me feel better more than seeing you all enjoy my less-than-perfect writing.
> 
> i love you all.
> 
> \- missy


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